franksolich wants a primitive for New Year's

[franksolich]

Since I’d gotten no primitive for Christmas, I went to the neighbor’s house for Christmas dinner, where he, his wife, his four young children, and I repasted upon turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat muffins with real butter, sour cream on the side, apple pie, coffee, and milk.

The neighbor’s wife wanted me to join her in exercising the horses while her husband stayed inside to clean up the dinner mess, but I desisted.  It was zero degrees outside.  True, there wasn’t any wind or ice or snow, but it was pretty cold.

And besides, she’s three months pregnant, and shouldn’t be doing anything rough anyway, but nobody pays attention to franksolich’s pre-natal advice.

I’d picked something up the last day or so, and was getting iller.  I dunno what it was, or is, as I had gotten an influenza shot in early November, but whatever it is, it resembles a cold.

So I went home and went to sleep until the business partner showed up from the middle of the Sandhills circa 4:00 p.m.  As I hadn’t gone to Christmas Day Mass yet, we went to the 5:00 services, and then headed over to the neighbor’s house to sup on turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat muffins with real butter, sour cream on the side, apple pie, coffee, and milk.

It was great; I would do this every day of the year, if such were possible.

The business partner and I then returned here, where he gave me some presents and I gave him some presents.  He opened his right away; four coffee-table-sized books of photographs of horses, one of the volumes 36”x24” and damned near forty pounds.

I’d given similar books to the neighbor’s wife for Christmas, but out of consideration for her delicate condition, smaller versions.

The business partner wanted me to enscribe the books as being to him from me, but I desisted; I don’t deface books by writing in them.  Instead, I just took four pieces of linen stationery and wrote different notes on them, slipping them inside the books.

He suggested I should open up my presents from him--and at least a few others from the mountain of unopened presents on the dining room table--but I put it off, telling him I was tired of Christmas presents, and would get around to it later.  He took it with good graces, because I’m s-o-o-o-o obviously ill.

It was getting late, and he had to head back home, as he had an important meeting in the morning, but said he’d be in this area later on in the week.  I said sure, fine, no problem, although I might be a little busy, as not having gotten a primitive for Christmas, I was going to look around for a primitive for New Year’s.

[BadCat]

I hope you get one for New Years, frank.

You can dispose of the body in the William Rivers Pitt.

[franksolich]

“You are sick, very sick,” the femme announced as she walked in the door.

I was sitting on the side of the couch, paying attention to nothing in particular, and so it took a bit for me to see she was here.

The femme had spent Christmas in Omaha with her sister and her family, and was on her way back home in the big city.  We’ve never spent a holiday together, as her sister doesn’t care for me, and she finds my notions of ways to spend holidays somewhat, uh, unconventional, not to her tastes.

It works out.

“You are really sick; you look lousy,” she repeated.

I admitted I was, and chastised her for showing up.  “You know I don’t like people around when I’m down.  They tend to get all aggravated and bent out of shape, which makes it worse.  Best to stay away, so I can give it time to pass.”

She said she’d dropped by because she wanted to know what kind of Christmas I’d had.

I told her, and then added that beginning sometime Sunday afternoon, I started going downhill, and well, here I was, at the bottom.  “I’ve been even too tired to cook, other than coffee.”

And I remembered, “I’m almost out of orange juice.  In a pinch, there’s all that fresh and frozen fruit that can be juiced up for Vitamin C, but at the moment, even pushing a button on the blender is beyond me, much less going to town to get orange juice.”

I didn’t need to mention the weather; there was a blinding blizzard going on outside, which was another reason I’d wished she’d just continued on to the big city, without stopping here first.  It was forecast to get worse.

She said not to worry about the weather, and asked me what I’d like to eat.

“Broccoli and cheese, with a side dish of sour cream,” I said.

She went into the kitchen to cook, and I took the opportunity to rise from the couch.  I didn’t want to do it in front of her, because it took some effort, and she might insist upon helping.

The femme is a solid woman, 5’8” and 117 pounds, and of course healthy and vigorous, but still, I have 57 pounds and five inches on her, and being a man, I don’t need to lean on a woman.

- - - - - - - - - -

She brought the last--about a quart--of the orange juice to the table, and then dinner.  There wasn't much space on the dining-room table because of all the presents, but she cleared out a usable corner.  She partook of the broccoli and cheese, but not of the sour cream, and so I dined on her portion of that too.

“You know, this just isn’t good,” she began…..

Uh huh.  The Argument Again.

“You’re way out here in the middle of nowhere, nobody else around within reach, and if something were to happen--”

“I’ve been out here since September 4, 2005,” I interrupted, “and nothing’s happened.”

“I worry.  Everybody worries,” she replied.

“Well, I don’t ask anybody to worry,” I retorted.  “There’s no need for anybody to worry.”

“But you can’t hear, and things are always going on around you that you don’t know about.  People even come inside this house, and you don’t know they’re there.

“Some day the wrong person’s going to come inside, and you won’t even have time to know it.”

I groaned.

“The woman who lived in this place before I did, lived here all alone, until she was carried away to the nursing home in town at the age of 102 years, where she died six months later.

“She’d been blind the last twenty years of her life, and nothing ever happened to her.”

“But you forget,” the femme inconveniently pointed out, “she’d lived here for seventy years or more, and knew every square inch of ground.  She could hear things, and could use a telephone.  She kept three dogs inside this house, and four outside.  And despite that she was blind, she could aim and shoot a rifle as good as any marksman.

"And besides, that was during a kinder and gentler age, twenty-five, thirty, years ago, when there weren't homeless people, jobless people, malicious people, weird people, predators and freeloaders, running around."

- - - - - - - - - -

“Look,” I said wearily, “I know it’s an illusion or delusion or whatever; I know no man is an island, wholly independent of others and wholly self-reliant.

“And myself, well…..I work for a living and pay my own way through life; I’m not pickpocketing other people’s wallets to support me.  But the sad sordid fact is--and I’ve always admitted it--that I’m more dependent, more reliant upon others, than even a six-year-old child with ears.

“It’s a bitch, being a strong healthy male, and having to lean on people because I can’t hear, having to have others watch out for me, watch my back.

“But that’s my fate in life, and I long ago accepted, adapted, and moved on.

“For the meantime however, even though it’s a fantasy, that I don’t need other people, I rather enjoy having that fantasy.  And I’d just as soon keep that fantasy until something happens, or I die, preferably the latter.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We finished lunch, and after putting the dishes away, she got ready to leave.

The blizzard outdoors had worsened, visibility near zero, but the femme’s a woman of the Sandhills of Nebraska; she knows how to handle such things.  If she’d been a woman from one of the effete blue states, or even from Omaha, I would’ve insisted she stay until the storm was over.

She kissed me and left.

- - - - - - - - -

The neighbor came by a couple of hours later, bringing four gallons of orange juice.

She’d known he was coming out here anyway, and so had telephoned him about it, and so he’d stopped off at the grocery store in town before coming here.

[franksolich]

The property caretaker came by about 11:00 this morning, for no reason other than to drop off dinner, which I hadn’t expected.  It was food left over from his own Christmas Day dinner; turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat rolls with real butter, sour cream, strawberry pie, coffee, and milk, all especially fluffed up for me by his wife on a large platter.

A friend of his was with him; they’re both in their mid-60s and were in the military together forty-five years ago, although while the caretaker went to Vietnam, the other guy got a vacation in Germany.

“Swede was worried because nobody in town’s seen you since Tuesday afternoon, and thought maybe you might be sick.  He wanted to send over your usual, but the wife was with me and said no, she’d send something you’d like even better.”

The food was still warm, having been transported in one of the silvery sorts of wrappers, but I had him put it in the counter-top roaster for a bit, as I wanted it hot.

We sat at the dining-room table.  His friend was at the opposite end from me, and I could see only the top of his head, given the tall stack of presents on the table.

“You look like Hell, boss,” the caretaker said.

“I’ve seen you worse, and so you’ll get over it, but you still look pretty bad.”

I admitted I felt pretty bad too, and was mystified as to what it was, as I’d gotten an influenza shot in November, and that usually staves off even mere colds.

The caretaker took inventory of the pile of presents.

“When are you going to open them, boss?  It’s after Christmas.”

I said I’d get around to it, sooner or later.

“But come on, boss, you should open at least one now.”

I looked at the stack, and pointed.  “A little one, because I’m not up to opening a big one.  That little one there, with the blue paper.  I forget who it’s from, but it’s about the size of present I can handle right now.”

The caretaker handed it to me, and I opened it.  It was a used (but very hard to find) copy of a book by Clare Boothe Luce in 1931, Stuffed Shirts.  I’d looked for it for years.  It was from the soil-scientist, who now lives in wedded bliss in southwestern Nebraska, and who’s remotely by marriage related to the most remarkable woman of the preceding century.

I was pleased, but that’s all the presents I wanted to deal with today.

While I dined, the caretaker and his friend, having coffee, chitchatted, but I couldn’t grasp what they were saying to each other, as I couldn’t see the friend’s face.

As I was finishing, the friend shoved his chair around the corner of the table so I could see him, and asked, “Now, why would you want a freeloading criminal bum for New Year’s?  One of these days you’re going to end up with one who’ll steal you blind, or worse.”

He and the caretaker chitter-chattered about the old hippies from Oklahoma, who were up here two years ago.

“That one fat one with the pony-tail, the leader, kept looking at you with a certain gleam in his eyes, as if thinking of dinner.”

“Yeah, that was a close call,” the caretaker said.

"But even creepier was the way his slatternly old lady kept looking at you as if you were bedroom fodder."

[franksolich]

About 2:30 this afternoon, up drove the wife of the retired banker and Grumpy himself; I was a little worried because their ages might make walking through the snow difficult, especially since they were bringing stuff, but I shouldn’t have; by the time I’d noticed and gotten to the front door, they were already on the front porch.

“We heard you were ill, and thought we should bring something,” she said.

And they had; an insulated wrapped platter of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat rolls with real butter, sour cream, pumpkin pie, coffee, and milk.

“They’re only leftovers from our Christmas dinner,” she said; “a rather poor repast, but we wanted to get out here before it got dark.”

I assured her it was no “poor repast,” that it all was exactly and precisely the sorts of things I enjoyed, and that if I had my way, I’d chow down on such every single day of the year.  But as nobody does turkey excepting on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s, I have to take it when I can get it, as much of it as I can get.

It was oven-ready, so I put it into the countertop roaster while she and Grumpy stood in the dining room, looking at the stack of presents on the table.  It appeared Grumpy, his polyester pants yanked clear up to the middle of his chest, had thought they’d just bring something by, and leave.

“My, what a lot of presents,” she said; “it’s wonderful, because you mean so much to others.”

It should perhaps be pointed out that the dining room table, some relic of Sears, Roebuck circa 1920, as it’s set up, can seat ten with no elbow-jamming.  When the center leaves are inserted and a prop underneath set up, it can seat sixteen.

“And it makes me embarrassed to give you this,” she added, extending a wrapped gift about the size of a shoe-box.  “It’s so modest, almost nothing.”

Inwardly, I groaned; as recipient of a great many presents in my life, I knew from experience that something modest, almost nothing, is actually a great deal.

I thanked her, and reminded her she shouldn’t have.  I wondered if she meant for me to open it then and there, but she immediately reassured me, “Later, when you’re alone.”

Inwardly, I groaned even more; again, based upon past experiences, such comment usually means that it’s something expensive, and the giver’s afraid the receiver might reject it, saying it’s too much.

But I accepted it graciously, and gave my visitors coffee-and-cream as I dined upon their dinner.

While Grumpy harrumphed and garrumphed, she told me of their own Christmas dinner; that a granddaughter, her husband, and small children had been up here from Lincoln.  “It was wonderful, and you know, children are such a delight to have around on Christmas.”

Grumpy harrumphed and garrumphed again, but said nothing intelligible.

When I finished dinner, and they were getting ready to leave, she again examined the mountain of presents, and suggested I “open at least one while we’re here.”

The one I wished least to open was buried, and so I felt safe saying, “Okay, you pick one.”

She selected a rather large and light one, from the business partner.

It was a bush-helmet, a high-quality name-brand, light tan, the third one I now owned.

“You know, it’s very unusual, but yet so fitting,” she commented, “everybody else around here wears cowboy hats, but you look so good, so handsome, in these sorts of hats.  They become you; they‘re so natural on you.”

I told her I preferred bush-helmets, as if out of British East Africa of the 1920s, because I looked stupid in a cowboy hat.  Not quite as stupid as the late Chief S itting Bull in a cowboy hat, but at least as stupid as the Bostonian Drunkard in a cowboy hat.

[franksolich]

About 5:00, when it was starting to get dark as midnight here on the roof of Nebraska, the oldest son of the owners came by.  The owners are pretty ancient, and their oldest son is now, for all practical purposes, the boss of this property (and various others spread around the county).  He’s my age, and we get along well, although he’s usually too quiet to suit me.

He brought along one of those cardboard beer-flats, in which lay a platter of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat rolls with real butter, sour cream, banana pie, coffee, and milk.

“Mom was concerned when she heard you were sick.  ‘You know, he doesn’t eat when he’s sick, and so be sure to stay there to be sure he eats it.’”

I was touched, as this particular family has had a busy--and a bad--time this Christmas.  The ancient elderly gentleman who used to mow the grass here, the owner, had been felled by small cerebral strokes several times during the past year, and was now in the nursing home.

The old gentleman had grown up at this place, and was the one who told me about the William Rivers Pitt, much to the gratitude of posterity.

His son also brought a fairly-large Christmas present, about the size of boxes in which one puts 288 eggs for the local hatchery.

“This is from Mom and Dad,” he told me.  “It probably won’t hurt to tell you, but it’s probably clothes, because some time ago Mom got a TravelSmith, Safari Outfitters, catalogue, and ordered things from it, and none of those things showed up in their presents to any of us.”

Glancing at the other presents, he saw one that had been sent via the post office, from California, and looked at the return-address.

“Now wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute here--since when has that stingy old grouch ever been known to give anybody anything?”

Oh now, I said; I’ve gotten a present from him every single Christmas and birthday the past eight years.

The “stingy old grouch” owns the house, and much land, directly across the river from here (but because of the river, it takes six miles of travel to get there).  His wife died some years ago, and he’s since then spent most of his time out in California, with the daughter, her husband, and family.  He’s talked a long time about selling the property, but he hasn’t yet.

He pays me a token amount to “manage” the residential part, his house and a few outbuildings.  There used to be three dogs and a cat there too, but they all died of old age, and now all that’s required is that I drive to the place once a day to be sure it’s still standing.  And because he has a computer and internet service in there, that’s when I take the opportunity to use one of my moles on Skins’s island, something I don’t dare do on this one.

“He’s actually a very generous person, a benefactor of mankind,” I told the owner’s son as I dined.

“It’s just that he has money, and has to act aloof and hostile, lest somebody want some of it.”

Wishing to make my point, I went ahead and opened the package; therein was a pair of Barr & Stroud binoculars.

“See?” I said; “this stingy old grouch makes Santa Claus look like Ebenezer Scrooge; you just have to know him.”

[franksolich]

The neighbor and his wife stopped by about 8:00 this evening, on their way to a pre-New Year’s Eve party.

They brought along with them, in a flat thermos-type container, a platter of warmed-up turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat buns with real butter, a side dish of sour cream, pecan pie, and I of course already had coffee and milk here.

“You don’t eat anything when you’re sick,” she said, “and as we’ve got a few minutes, we’re going to hang around while you have this.”

I thought I’d died and gone to culinary heaven.

We sat around while I dined, and discussed plans for the New Year’s. 

They’re having a party--the children will be overnight with the grandparents--and I’ll be there, at least for a while, even though I don’t drink.  The business partner will be in town, and he doesn’t drink either, but he’ll be there.  The femme will be back down in Omaha, which is a good thing.

I was more than halfway through dining when the neighbor’s wife protested, “But you didn’t open any of your presents yet.”

I showed her that indeed I had; the diamond-speckled paperweight from the femme, the book from the soil scientist, the bush-helmet from the business partner, and the binoculars from the old grouch--in addition to the stuff that’d come here unwrapped; some books, some baskets and cases of fruit, a couple of shirts, some home-made cherry and grape jams and jellies, whatever was left of that large “wheel” of real cheddar cheese, several loaves of home-made banana bread, a pair of shoelaces, an indoor-outdoor thermometer, a new thermos chest made to hold one gallon of milk to haul around in summer, &c., &c., &c.

I also pointed out a stack of nested plastic cat-litter boxes, twelve of them.

Someone had given me a $50 gift card, telling me not to spend it on the cats, but to get something for myself.  I’d gone to the hardware store in town, but hadn’t seen anything I needed, so I bought up all their litter-boxes.  It’s winter, and even though only three litter-boxes are in use at any one time inside the house, one can’t have too many spare ones.

It was something for myself; the gift of not being stressed out when the empty litter-boxes are on the front porch covered with four feet of snow, and they’re needed inside the house.

I consider relief from stress a gift.

“But still,” the neighbor’s wife insisted, “all that isn’t hardly anything, compared with what’s on the table here.

“You haven’t opened up a single thing we gave you.”

Yeah, I hadn’t yet, and so offered to open one, suggesting it be one from their children.

The neighbor’s wife found a long narrow package.

“The children were all excited about this, because they think it’s something you should have.

“They’re always worried--the older three of them--that some day some strange people are going to come here and hurt you.

“They wanted you to have a real one, but you won’t have a real one, and so they thought a fake one would scare some of these strange people away, at least the hippies.”

I opened it up.  It was a plastic smaller-scale toy version of an AK-47 or M-16 or whatever; made in Red China, it was hard to tell.

I told the parents to thank the children--which of course I’ll do later myself--and assure them that I’ll keep it stashed in the drawer of the bedside table in the bedroom.

[franksolich]

The femme came by early this morning, on her way to Omaha, where she’s spending New Year’s.

It was -4 degrees at the time; it’s a deep freeze here, not expected to let up for some days.

“Just as I thought,” she said; “you look worse than you did two days ago.

“You won’t eat anything when you’re sick, and so on my way here, I stopped at the delicatessen “

She sat on the empty corner of the dining room table a foam container, in which was turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat muffins with real butter, a container of sour cream, and kiwi pie. 

I assured her yes, I had orange juice, in addition to the standard coffee and milk.

As I was dining, she commented, “I thought so; you’re famished, starved.

“I really wish you lived closer to other people, so they’d be sure you take what you need, when you’re sick.”

Avoiding the subject, since it always seems to cause arguments, I mentioned what I was doing for New Year’s, along with regrets that I probably wouldn’t have a primitive to help ring it in.

Since we weren’t having the holiday together, she ignored the subject, looking instead among all the presents on the table.  “Why don’t you surprise me, and open one of them now?’

I told her to pick one out, hoping to God she didn’t pick out one of three remaining unopened, that I’d gotten from the business partner.  They don’t get along with each other.

She didn’t; she picked up a flat one that a former college classmate, who lives in Omaha, had dropped off here two weeks ago, while on his way west, to dutch508’s neck of the woods, the western slope of the Sandhills.

I opened it.

“Whoa.

“I’ll bet his wife found this in an antique store somewhere.”

It was a small Wedgewood china plate commemorating the 25th wedding anniversary of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth (mother of the present H.M. the Queen) in 1948.  It was wonderful, exquisite.

She admired it, but was puzzled.  “How would he know?

“I mean, you know, it’s not something you talk about much.”

I lived with him a very long time ago, I reminded her, for three years back when we were in college; one’s less inhibited about such things when one’s young. 

And around here, I don't mention it because it would tarnish my macho reputation, which I’d endeavored so long and so hard to build up, usually involuntarily.

[franksolich]

A little before noon today, when the sun was shining its brightest, giving the delusion of warmth, two people from town came out here--the wife of the 400-pound guy who shovels grain at the local elevator five and a half days a week, and their 26-year-old son, who lives and works in a city south of here.

I inquired about her husband, why he wasn’t with them, as it would’ve been nice to see him.  She pointed at the clock, adding that he worked until noon on Saturday, and even if the world is all frozen at -7 degrees, grain has to be shoveled.

She’s a hair-dresser, and very popular.  She used to keep the salon open 8-5 on Saturdays too, but with the coming of Barack Milhous’ health care and new taxes, she figured, “Oh, Hell, I’m 57 years old, too old for this kleptomaniac crap.”  So now she’s closed on Saturdays, and is thinking about this summer, being open only in the mornings of weekdays.

She dyes her hair a flaming red, and uses too much make-up.  She’s a heavy woman.

They brought with them a present…..and dinner.  Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat buns with real butter, a dish of sour cream, and a quarter of a chocolate-pudding pie.

“This is left over from Christmas dinner, but I heard you were sick, and you don’t eat when you’re sick, but we’re not leaving until you eat.

“I’m cooking a new turkey for New Year’s Day, and I’ll be sure to send over some of that too, while it‘s still fresh.

“And the present, it’s something [her husband] picked up at [the farm supply store in the big city], thinking it was something you’d appreciate having out here, being by yourself and all that.”

I thanked her, and took lunch into the kitchen, to briefly warm it up in the counter-top roaster.  I was somewhat nervous, because this is a woman who likes to use a lot of grease when cooking, but relieved when I saw it was pretty dry, meaning the grease had evaporated.

- - - - - - - - - -

When I went back into the dining room, she was still standing there in her winter coat, indicating “brrrr, it’s cold in here.”

Her son glanced over at the thermostat in the living room.  “It’s set on 54 degrees.  No wonder the cats are all cowering under the blankets on the couch.  Is something wrong with the furnace?”

No, I assured him; “I’m running a temperature, and sweating like a pig; it‘s just too hot.

“I’m miserable, utterly wretched.”

Noticing the first-aid kit by the telephone, his mother took the thermometer and insisted upon jamming it into my mouth, even though I protested I’d just checked it half a hour before.

When she pulled it out, she read it, announcing, “Ninety-nine point one, but you look like it’s a lot worse than that.  The top of your shirt’s damp from sweat.”  I was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and gym shorts.

“It is a fever,” I said; “I have the same sort of condition my mother had, where the best body temperature’s 95.6 to 96.4, and anything above 97 is a fever.  She was a very cold person, cold as ice, and I inherited it from her.”

And then apropos of nothing, “Which doesn’t make one very much fun bouncing around in the sack.”

She grabbed the blood-pressure monitor.  “But it’s okay,” I said; “I checked it earlier this morning, and it’s where it usually is, 110/58, nothing to be worried about.”

But she checked it anyway, pronouncing it at that moment to be 112/61.

“You look sicker than that, though,” she insisted.

I assured her that I was watching all vital signs carefully, and if I saw something amiss, I’d immediately pick up the telephone and punch the direct button to the neighbor’s house six miles away.  (She didn’t have to be reminded that he’s a volunteer emergency medical technician, an EMT; he‘s dealt with her husband before.)

“I’m in the middle of an end-of-the-year project, which involves writing tens of thousands of words, describing primitive things, and I’ll know right away something’s wrong if I get incoherent.

“As far as I know, I’m not incoherent yet, although I might be by New Year’s Eve.”

- - - - - - - - - -

While I ate, she filled me in on local gossip, but kept looking at one wrapped present on the table; she’d noticed it was from the automotive mechanic and his wife.  The mechanic’s wife and she are sisters, and apparently have been very “competitive” all their lives.

She wouldn’t say so, but she was curious as to what her sister had given me.

Flawlessly, I said that while she was here, I felt like opening up a present selected at random, and carelessly picked up that exact one, unwrapping it.

It was a large aerosol can of Mace Triple Action Pepper Spray.

I was awed and humbled; the mechanic and his wife had shot twenty-five bucks on me.

She however was not so, and I tried to assuage her mysterious ire by opening the present from she and her husband.

It was a large aerosol can of Mace Triple Action Pepper Spray; the exact same thing.

She seemed soothed when I assured her, “Well, two’s better than none, and I’m delighted.”

[franksolich]

On Sunday morning, just before the sun came up--we get up early around here, excepting on Sundays, when people sleep in late, until 8:00 a.m.--a car with its headlights still on pulled up into the front yard,  It was Wanda, the cherubic heavy-set cook of Polish derivation, who works at the bar Swede’s wife owns.

She’d stopped her on her way to the big city, where she’s having breakfast with some other women.

When she came inside the door, I was grateful to see she wasn’t bearing a gift.

She did however have a very large aluminum-foil-covered tray, wherein was turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat muffins with real butter, a side dish of sour cream, and a large slice of lemon meringue pie.

Swede’s wife had told her to bring it out here on her way to the big city; “She said you were sick, and everybody knows you don’t eat when you’re sick, but really you should.”

“We have to cook a new turkey for New Year’s Day, and this is what’s left over from Christmas; it’s a few days old, but it’s still good.”

I assured her there’s nothing wrong with days’-old turkey; in fact, I prefer it that way.

- - - - - - - - - -

As she looked as if she wanted to stay inside a bit, to get warmed up, I told her about the most succulent, the most delightful, turkey I’d ever had in my life, bar none.

The winters I was 18, 19, and 21 years old, I’d spent in England (not doing anything in particular, just roaming around), and my “base of operations” was the Shakespeare Inn at 5, Butchery Lane in Canterbury.  It was a pub, not really an inn, but the family there rented out a couple of rooms. 

It probably doesn’t exist any more, but it was located within a minute’s walk of the cathedral; in fact, the main tower of that wonderful medieval edifice loomed right outside the window of the bedroom I used, as if it were right next door.

I dunno if the building was real Tudor or faux Tudor; at that age, I didn’t pay much attention to details.  But it certainly looked Tudor, being on a very narrow, winding cobblestoned street, and each of its four floors, as one went up, stuck out further and further above the preceding floor, until the top floor seemed to touch the building across the street.

Anyway, as mentioned, it was a pub more than an inn, and on the bar sat a whole cooked turkey, a big one, underneath a glass dome.  I was confused by the phenomenon, because while the English do dine on turkey, they don’t seem to dine that much on turkey.

It was kept there until it was wholly consumed, which meant that before I arrived, it probably sat there a week or more.  After I was around, it had to be replaced rather more often.

That was wonderful turkey, even if missing all the usual American side-dishes.

- - - - - - - - - -

She asked other questions about Canterbury--unlike most Nebraskans, she’s not well-traveled--and I answered them.

After a while, however, she could see I was “fading,” from the intense physical and intellectual exertions of trying to “hear,” and decided she should go.  “You’re tired, honey,” and yes, I was.

As she was putting her coat back on, she mentioned the mountain of unopened Christmas presents on the dining room table.

“You know, [the property caretaker] said he got you something you really needed; if I may ask, what was it?”

I said I didn’t know, because I hadn’t yet opened any of those from the caretaker and his wife, but we could find out, right then and there.  There were three presents from the couple, two large ones and one small one.

The card on the small one was in his handwriting not hers, and so that had to be it.

Written in the card was the cryptic “I don’t want you to ruin your wrench; put it back in the tool box.”

I opened it up; it was a 16” extendable baton, black, with a rubber grip.

Reading the owner’s manual, I was illuminated that it was illegal in California, Illinois, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York, and Pennsylvania.

My God, I thought; first they come for the guns, and now they’re coming for this.  What next?

[franksolich]

The neighbor, his wife, and their four children were here in early afternoon, as she wanted to “prep” the New Year’s Day turkey for me to pop into the oven here and start cooking circa 4:00 a.m.

It’s supposed to be bitterly cold again tonight--although no snow or ice--and I said I’d have to leave the cats indoors, crossing my fingers that nothing happens.

“I know it’s an imposition to you, but I really appreciate it,” the neighbor’s wife said.  She cooks the Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s turkeys in this kitchen rather than her own because this kitchen is hardly used, and it leaves her own kitchen available for other stuff.

“I’ll be so happy when this six-week-long turkey season’s over, and we can get back our usual eating,” she said; “but oddly, you and the children seem as if you could have it all the time, every single day, and not get tired of it.”

I ahemed.

“Excuse me, but it seems to me someone complaining they’re ‘tired’ of turkey must have it pretty easy in life, if that’s something they can whine about.  Turkey’s excellent; next to milk and dairy products, it’s the closest thing to a perfect food one can find.  And a delicious one too.”

“I’m glad you said that,” she replied, having her husband bring in a couple of cardboard beer-flats in which were nested turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat muffins with real butter, a couple of side-dishes of sour cream, and half a strawberry-rhubarb pie.

“I had to make room for New Year’s dinner,” she said, “and this is what’s left over from Christmas dinner.

“You need it, because you’re sick, and when you’re sick, you don’t eat.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I was asked if I was going to be well enough to go to their New Year’s Eve party Monday night; I assured them I was hourly praying for a cure, but I was now beginning to doubt the efficacy of prayer.  But, at any rate, the business partner, who’s staying here that night, would be there.

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor was in the dining room, inspecting the baton, a gift from the property caretaker, apparently meant to replace my ancient S/K adjustable wrench with the 17” handle and the 1-3/8” spannage.

“This is a sleek, professional beater, that should scare away any hippie,” he said.  “It’s awesome, it looks even more dangerous than a gun.”

I reminded him that while the thought’s occurred before, beating the stuffing out of a primitive, at the moment I was far more interested in collecting a specimen for observation and analysis.

Both of us had to be careful of our language, there being young children present.

“I’m sure it can be scientifically proven that primitives are deficient in something, that deficiency making them what they are, less than decent and civilized, and maybe some sort of pharmaceutical drug could be devised to correct it.

“And trust me; they’d eat up on those pills; they like taking pills.

“But one has to first observe and analyze primitives up close--camping down by the side of the river here is too far away--and so I was really hoping to have a primitive for New Year’s.

“The way it’s going, though, I might as well start wishing for a primitive for my birthday.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor’s wife came out of the kitchen and looking at the dining-room table, suggested, “Why don’t you open up another present, so we can see what you got?

“And a big one too, so you can make more room on the table.”

I said fine, and reached for the big one from them.

“No, we already know what’s in there,” she corrected me; “pick out a big one from someone else.”

The children, who’d been doing their own thing in the living room, came to the dining-room to watch.

I selected the big one from the ancient elderly owner of this place and his wife, delivered here only yesterday by their oldest son.

Therein lay two kiwi shirts, one light blue and the other light brown; two short-sleeved shirts, one light blue and the other light brown; two pairs of cargo shorts, both tan; one pair of corduroy shorts, grey; two pairs of medium-brown bush-pants; and a black-and-brown merino-wool sweater.

I was awed, but the children weren’t; they’d hoped there was an Atari or Zork or wi-fi or iPod or whatever’s the current fad, and this was…..just clothes.

[GOBUCKS]

“I’m glad you said that,” she replied, having her husband bring in a couple of cardboard beer-flats in which were nested turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat muffins with real butter, a couple of side-dishes of sour cream, and half a strawberry-rhubarb pie.

“You need it, because you’re sick, and when you’re sick, you don’t eat.”

It seems to me that when coach is sick he eats like the Las Vegas Lardass on food stamp day.

[vesta111]

It seems to me that when coach is sick he eats like the Las Vegas Lardass on food stamp day.

Sorry Frank but it seems from the first chapters of your story you missed the obvious, Your primitive was right before your eyes. the Cow Boy. 

Poor fella, alone on New Years Eve.  Must have led an interesting life well worth spending some time delving into.

How did he come up to be the man he is today ???  Both of you being men must have Something in common. Walked the same road but when it came to a fork in the road went in different directions.

Librations on a Holiday's will open the mind to the fears and grief one has had in the past, a true learning experience you passed up.

[franksolich]

“Boss, you look like a wreck today, worse than ever,” the property caretaker said as he came in this morning.  “The Titanic going down looked better than you do.

“You’re probably not eating anything.”

The caretaker was here this morning because he was on his way to the big city; today’s the day formal and legal ownership of this property passes from the ancient elderly gentleman and his grey-haired wife to their sons, chief among them their oldest son, who’s the same age as I am.

I’m not sure exactly what they’re doing--this doesn’t affect me as a tenant--but felt good about it, as I do every time decent and civilized people outwit kleptomaniac Democrats and thieving primitives; more power to them.

It however never occurred to me that people dress up when going to an attorney’s office--of course, that’s not anything within the realm of my own experience--as he was wearing a suit.

“You don’t look like you’re going out tonight to ring in the New Year,” he guessed.

Probably not, I said; the business partner was expected here about mid-afternoon, and then in late afternoon we’d planned on going over to the neighbor’s house for a party, but it looked as if he was going to go alone.  Which is fine; he’s from this general area, and knows people.

The caretaker hadn’t brought me anything for breakfast, but when I spoke out my disappointment, he said, “Don’t worry, boss; there’ll be plenty of that coming here late tomorrow, after we’re done at home.  The wife even brought an extra-large turkey, so there’ll be more for you.”

[franksolich]

The business partner showed up from the middle of the Sandhills of Nebraska about 3:00 this afternoon, bringing with him a couple more presents (from other people) and…..a complete New Year’s Day dinner, cooked by his sister-in-law.  The business partner and his older brother don’t get along very well, but his sister-in-law, who’s about my age, likes me.

Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn, fresh peas, whole-wheat rolls with real butter, a container of sour cream, and a quarter of a strawberry meringue pie.  He was apologetic about it, but I told him no; such things have been saving me a great deal of trouble the past six days, making life considerably easier.

He agreed I appeared in no shape to attend any party tonight, and that he’d go to the neighbor’s alone.

It’s no big deal; true, he’s from 130 miles west of here, but because of his business activities, knows many people in the area.  Too, he’s been a friend of the neighbor for nearly ten years now.

However, despite my weakened condition, I wanted to get out of here, even if for only a few minutes.

- - - - - - - - - -

We went to town.  The only place then open in late afternoon on New Year’s Eve was the bar, all other businesses having closed early for the holiday.  Although I had ample repast at home, I decided for a slight change of pace, I’d dine upon my usual instead, a hamburger pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, and french fries cooked on the grill, not in the fryer.

The cherubic cook of Polish derivation, Wanda, was cooking this evening, but at the moment, she was talking with three people, strangers.  

I stopped in my tracks, and to confirm something turned around and looked outside the window.  There was a car there, from a blue state, on which were half a dozen bumper-stickers, 0BAMA-BIDEN, CHRISTMAS S*CKS, ABORTION NOW, F*CK AMERICA, those sorts of things.

The three were huddled, their elbows on the bar, while arguing something with Wanda.  Apparently they wanted to use a certain blue-and-grey credit card, and she was explaining to them one couldn’t use it for prepared food in Nebraska.

She also counseled them that it being New Year’s Eve, and almost everybody closed down, probably the closest place they could use it was in big city, nearly fifty miles away.

The guy looked to be about 40 years old, eerily resembling a more disheveled, dirtier, thinner Las Vegas Leviathan, and the two women with him might as well have been twins, and twin LynneSin primitives to boot.

- - - - - - - - - -

I was momentarily distracted by someone wanting to talk with me, and by the time I could turn my attention back to the bar, the primitives had disappeared.

I asked Wanda where they’d gone.

They were on their way from Ohio to Oregon, she said, and were planning on driving straight through Nebraska tonight.

I was aghast, alarmed.

They were going to cross the Sandhills of Nebraska at night; the Sandhills, the most daunting, the most fearsome, the most challenging, the roughest, the most formidable 300-mile stretch of roadway in all of North America, compared with which going through passes in the Rocky Mountains in blizzards, or soaring across the deserts of Utah and Nevada in the heat of summer, is a trifle, a piece of cake, as easy as strawberries-and-cream.

The Sandhills--and at night--at which even native Americans, early explorers, fur trappers, Indian scouts, the U.S. Army, and hardy pioneers had quailed, and either turned around going back east, or sought an easier way west.

“God have mercy on their souls,” I said.

[franksolich]

I suppose this is it, the end; no primitive for New Year's for franksolich.

The business partner went to help set up the party, and even though it's only almost 5:00 p.m., I'm headed back into the sack with a half-gallon jug of orange juice.